


Now I'm 6 feet deep and I can't breathe (I got dirt in my eyes and blood on my sleeves.)

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: Yandere Simulator (Video Game)
Genre: ? - Freeform, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Asthma, Bullying, Child Abuse, Depression, Dissociation, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Family Issues, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Murder, Rewrite of backstory bc im SALTIER THAN YOUR CHIPS, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:30:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: But I dig my way upThrough these roots and leavesSo I can get some airSo I can finally breathe





	Now I'm 6 feet deep and I can't breathe (I got dirt in my eyes and blood on my sleeves.)

**Author's Note:**

> I hate yandev with all of my heart and I rewrote ayanos backstory out of pure spite. His abliest ass and poor writing abilities make me so mad. He's such a annoying man. I hate the word yndere i hate the dev and when it's all said and done I'll probably hate the game. But goddamnit. God fucking damnit. On some level I fucking relate to ayano, ok? I hate what the dev is doing to her. Because I _relate._ I just want her and info to be happy

Her first memory is of white.

White walls, white bed, all around _white_ , too white, too clean and sterile. It was in that moment she decided she hated white, within the walls of the hospital.

She didn't smile. She wasn't a happy child, alone, sitting, waiting for the seconds to tick down. Her lungs burned, heaving with the weight of her yet committed sins, and she tries to sigh. It comes out as a choked breath and devolves into a dry cough, her hands coming up to cup her mouth. She wondered, distantly, when she would be released again, going home with a new inhaler that probably wouldn't work. She wondered when the last time she smiled was. Probably back when mom and dad pretended, for her, at least, that they were not shouting, that arguments weren't a thing to come to pass, that they didn't speak in hushed tones under the cloak of night about money and her being more than she's worth. Back when they smiled at her, loved her. She can almost remember what that feels like— to be loved, but it's just out of reach. She wonders if it matters.

She wonders if one day her lungs will be healthy enough for her to run and laugh and trip and cry over her skinned knees, and then get back up and do it all over again, she wonders if one day, if that day should come, her classmates would stop pointing fingers at her, _what a freak, she never does anything,_ and welcome her with open arms. The doctors say it's doubtful, but mom says that doctors have been wrong before. Dad cries, already given up, shouting through tears whenever mom tries to tell him to have hope.

_I had hope back in ‘89 and look where that's got me!_

Everyone is silent after that. She doesn't get it, but she's not sure she wants to.

 

They decrease. Attacks aren't as often as before, and aren't nearly as life threatening, and she finds herself in the hospital less and less. She wonders if it will fix everything, now, but the shove she gets into the water fountain on her way into school is answer enough. She never smiles, hasn't for awhile now, listless, almost resigned. She wonders when it stopped hurting, and started to feel numb.

 

Her dad tries to get her to smile, to laugh, and sometimes it worked. He'd look relieved, maybe thinking that it was solved, for a second, but always she went back to her resigned shell. The doctors said depression, and gave her pills that did nothing to help the hollow feeling in her. The kids at school bullied her more, forgetting about their original reason of her lack of activities, instead focusing on her demeanor, now, how her smiles are rarer than jeremejevite. The days she smiles freely feel far away, and she's not sure she cares. Apathy burns a hole in her.

 

Her mom smiles all to sweetly at her, tipping her head towards her, whispering in her ear that all she needs is _love_ , love will save all, and she weaves stories of how she stalked her dad, murdered any girl he talked to, and she feels mutely horrified, but not as much as she probably should be, before her mom tilts her lips to hers.

She feels disgusted, and she clings to that. It's the strongest feeling she's felt in years.

  
It happens again and again until she just feels numb.

 

She can't remember what emotions are supposed to feel like. Did she trick herself into thinking she felt them right before? Did she fool herself into thinking she knew colors once? Everything is monotone. Is she emotionless, or feeling to much? Is there nothing in her, or to much? She doesn't think she cares for the answer, it leads to the same place anyways.

 

She wants to feel something. She wants to feel something other than _broken_.

 

So she tries to.

  
Her socks are long, covering up her scars, and though there is numb pain, there is nothing else.

  
She finds it's easier to pretend to be normal. To pretend to smile, be happy, to not cause any issues for people. The bullying stops, and she is loved, but she only feels bitter. People will only love you if you act how they want you to.

 

Her dad frets over her less, but deep down knows he is still raising a monster. Her mom knows her lies, but just repeats herself as she holds her in ways she should not, over and over, _love is the answer._ She doesn't feel different. She wonders what it would take to get her to feel different.

She wants to feel different.

 

 

  
There is a cat, in the neighborhood. Everyone loves this cat, everyone dotes on this cat. It brings out the soft side in everyone who comes across it. it approaches her, meowing, purring as if she was a lifetime friend, and she crouches down, plays with it.

She still feels nothing.

  
The cat ends up in her hand, this cat who seems to make everyone else happy, yet refuses to bless her with the same gift, and it is warm. It is warm, and soft in her hands, and it almost makes her hesitate. She looks at its face, smiling, happy, and she

_Throws_

_It_

_**Down**._

 

There is blood on her hands.

She feels more hollow than to start.

 

  
All she feels is hate. She hates her dad, always yelling at mom, always crying in the night, showing her that caring is pain. She hates her mom, preaching about the kind of love that is toxic, kissing her, traumatizing her, showing her that love is violent. She hates her classmates, taunts and teases turning into cheers, stale air that they try to breath into her, despite choking her for so long, showing her that love is conditional. She hates everything.

Until she doesn't.

 

It's not love at first sight. There is no such thing at love at first sight. He is a childhood friend of osana, a girl she knew since she was young, and she has never met him before. Apparently, he moved to America for a while, and come back to finish high school. He doesn't catch her eyes, she doesn't even know he exists at first. It was accidental, they were bound to met, her running into him and falling over. It's cliche, and ridiculous, and she wants to roll her eyes and scoff at first, but then she sees it–

_Her stockings have slipped down._

And her heart stops, just a bit, something akin to panic thumping in her veins, but to far off for her mind to process. She is not there.

But then he speaks, holds out his hand to her, only acknowledging the now bleeding—the scabs must have gotten scraped off in the fall—lines when he uses his handkerchief to wipe the red off her pale skin. And he smiles at her, he doesn't call her a freak or a attention seeker, all he does is ask if she's ok.

And that's when she knows she's completely screwed.

 

  
She doesn't know if it's love, adoration, fixation, or obsession. She doesn't care. He shows kindness to everyone, no matter who they are, he smiles as if the world is good, and it's amazing. How can he smile like that? Like he doesn't know the horrors of the world? He treats people well, but he's not naive either. He can be sarcastic, funny, his rap battle—who's idea was that anyways?—with budo going viral. She is infatuated. He is like a pink veil in her vision, everything seeming a bit more rosey around him. She cannot speak, he takes away her breath, and vaguely she wonders if the last time she was gasping for air if it was this pleasant. She thinks of the hospitals that used to be more familiar than home, and decide that no, he's just that amazing, that addictive.

He's so perfect she wants to die.

She needs him.

She'll have him.

 

  
A strange girl texts her. She saw her stalking him and wants to help, saying all she needs for her assistance is information or a panty shot—something she can sell. She calls her disgusting and she calls her a stalker. Despite herself, she smiles.

  
And then she read that a _bitch_ , osana, is going to take taro away and she almost breaks her phone, grip tightening.

How dare she.

 

_I hope you make her suffer._

 

She does things. Drastic things. The school feels gloomy, to people, everyone on edge and scared. She just smiles.

If he knew what she's done, he'd abandon her, wouldn't he?

 

Her favorite weapon is a box cutter. It's something she used to use on herself, turning the blade to her skin, but now she cuts open students, and it tastes like some cruel justice. She kills them with the weapon that once spilt her own blood, own pain and suffering, and she does it with a laugh, becoming more sadistic with the more people she kills. It's a rush, kinda, seeing the life fades from their eyes.

 

She texts info at school, plotting everyone's downfalls with her. It's kinda fascinating, so she tries to look up information. She smirks at her little message, vaguely promising to find out about her, just a bit more. When she locate her club, catching glimpses of her red hair, and her eyes, framed in red, she can't help but stare.

 

She's always a few step ahead of her, though, and there's a curtain separating them. She feels dull resentment flicker at this.

 

People are dead, and it's her fault. It doesn't hit at first, she feels nothing, their lives don't matter, they're just objects. It doesn't hit until her hands are above kokonas neck, until she decides that she's more useful alive. Until she thanks her for getting her out of debt, despite how she hovered over her debating if she should live just mere moments prior. And here she is, _thanking her._ She has _no fucking clue._

  
She fucking hates this. She doesn't like this anymore.

  
Somehow, she ends up in the bathroom, laughing. Kokona must have left, but she can hardly remember, only blurry, hazy thoughts in her mind. Her hands find themselves on her face, wiping away snot and tears, as she continues to laugh. She thanked her. She fucking thanked her. She remembers miyu's corpse, how she looked with her head cracked against the pavement just earlier that day. She remembers how she and kokona where friends, and for a second she wonders what that's like, then she wonders what kokona would do once she learns of her death. She holds her head in her hands and screams.

She wonders why she ever wanted her emotions back. She locked them away for a reason.

  
Her hand is shaking, her hands holding her phone as she fumbles for infos contact. She's all she has, no matter how pathetic that sounds, a client who only has the comfort of her provider. She laughs bitterly at that, Infos message replaying in her head, less humorous and more hopeless. She misses her parents, despite everything, and wonders if normal parents would be the ones most people would seek comfort in, instead of them being fuck knows where, leaving messages on tapes that she doesn't bother to listen to, because what's the point? But, she isn't most people, and never will be, she realizes, as she sobs into her phone.

The other end is silent, but info doesn't hang up, she doesn't leave, and that's enough.

After that most of her elimination methods are non violent.

  
Later, when she asks info for some beer, needing to frame a student for drinking, and her response is she doesn't handle alcohol, the smell brings back memories, she buys a pack of cigarettes instead, and knows better than to pry.

 

  
It occurs to her, after time passes, that she hasn't taken a picture of senpai in a week, to busy texting info. She's learned that the other girl loves indie music, watches anime, and has ten miku figurines. She's learned that she'd rather have ramen over rice, that she hates people who buy panty shots from her, and is only doing it out of necessity, for money, since her dad is out of town and her mother is dead. She learns that she loves video games and her favorite animals are cats, and when she was little there was one she would always pet before it went missing—she feels prickles of guilt, at that—learns that she would die for a good piece of literature, and that she sometimes forgets to eat, and when she doesn't it's mainly junk food. She realizes that she knows nothing of what taro likes, knows nothing about him compared to her, the only thing certain is that he would hate her if he knew what she's done. She thinks of how info knows everything, and of how she still talks to her, the whole business front being thrown out of the window once she saw her breakdown. She thinks of how info is there, and he is not. She doesn't know how to feel about that, so she doesn't.

  
She wonders why she's here, what has she been doing this whole time? It feels pointless. The motivation she had is gone.

If she was to end up with him, she'd still feel empty, her heart gone, off with the red head with the red glasses and mysteries.

All she can think of is her, this girl she's never even met, wondering if she was shorter or taller than her, how her laugh sounded, and—

 _Shit_.

She was in deep.

**Author's Note:**

> _Will you take my soul in the midnight rain?_   
>  _While I'm falling apart?_   
>  _While I'm going–_   
>  _Insane ?_
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> ( https://youtu.be/O3bfRBassAQ )


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